


Hands are Clever

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Break Up, M/M, Making Up, Peril, Prompt Fic, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 17:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't take Sherlock's jealous, overprotective streak, and leaves Sherlock and Baker Street in a fit of anger. So when they later turn up at the same party, John tries to ignore him. However, ignoring Sherlock Holmes when he's on a case is easier said than done - luckily for Sherlock.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>The dark, needy note in Sherlock’s voice makes John want, makes him think of doing things they have no business doing in exactly the worst place imaginable, makes him want to forgive and forget. He’s been full of second thoughts since he left almost a month ago, and as he slowly slides his hands up Sherlock’s chest to caress his neck, John realizes this feeling, this burn of heady need that binds them together, is as instinctive as breathing. He trusts his gut – and he should trust this. Trust them.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands are Clever

**Author's Note:**

> All the love in the world for on the spot, emergency, exacting beta work by the amazing and fawn-colored HiddenLacuna.

“You _knew_ I was going to be here,” John says, and takes another glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. “So why the hell am I seeing you?”

Sherlock scowls, pulls him deeper into the recess of the curtains. “I’m here because I have a case.”

“And, of course, Marcus and I being in the same room tonight had no bearing on your decision to take that case.”

“I was requested to make some discreet inquiries into Lord Caulfield’s sudden acquisition of a stable of  notable talented dog trainers. Just because he’s your new flame’s cousin isn’t going to keep me from that.”

“Sounds like a scintillating tale, right up there with your exacting standards. Look, Marcus is my friend, and I see no reason—“

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest, a picture of annoyance. “Yes, I’m sure he’s been wonderful. More than happy to provide a shoulder to cry on now that I’m out of the picture, maybe a nice cock to ride to get your mind off of your overprotective, jealous ex.”

John can practically hear the air quotes. He closes his eyes, counts to five, leans in very close and curls his fingers around Sherlock’s lapel. “If you ever speak to me that way again I won’t hesitate to drag you outside and punch you in the mouth. Marcus has been my friend since I enlisted, as I’ve told you many, many times. I’ve not seen him more than once since he’s been home. Now. You’re going to go over to…wherever it is you need to go, I’m going to enjoy my champagne and talk to Marcus, and I’ll see you next Tuesday to get the rest of my things.” John releases his grip and steps back, smoothes down the lapel of Sherlock’s tuxedo and gives him a tight smile.

Sherlock doesn’t speak, just flexes his jaw and spins on his heel to stalk across the room toward the bar.

John sighs. It’s for the best, really, and the constant arguing over Sherlock’s insecurity about Marcus was just too much to bear. But that doesn’t mean it still isn’t heart-wrenchingly painful.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Although John tells himself not to be, he’s hyperaware of Sherlock for the rest of the night.

Which is why, when Sherlock slips out of the servant’s entrance, John is in a position to notice the man who goes out after him.

“Damn it,” John mutters. He’s still angry, but he can’t let Sherlock be ambushed. So John deposits his third empty glass of champagne on a tray and tries to follow as stealthily as his rustling tuxedo jacket and shiny black shoes will allow. They work their way in a strange little three-person parade through the kitchens and the janitorial rooms until they emerge on the other side of the house, then through another door into a small hall. John keeps back, tries to wait around each corner as they proceed and watches as the man, big, bullish, and blocky, stops and listens at a closed door.  As the man starts to slowly push the door open John darts into the hall, runs up behind him and uses both fists twined together to crack him against the back of the head. He drops like a stone.

“John!” Sherlock exclaims, looking startled, and then takes in the scene before him with a quick glance. Without waiting for an explanation, Sherlock pulls off his tie and John does the same, the two of them working in tandem without missing a beat, as if the last month had never happened. They finish tying the man’s hands and feet and John’s about to ask what’s next when the man starts to come around. Sherlock takes the pocket square from his jacket and stuffs it into the man’s mouth, and then stops for a moment, thinking, as the man thrashes on the floor and makes indignant grumbles around the fabric.

“Quiet, you moron, I can’t think with you flailing about.” Sherlock kicks him in the knee as he passes, pacing the room for a minute before going to a small filing cabinet and opening a drawer.  John leans against a desk, taking in the bookcases, chairs, and cabinets of a very luxurious home office.

“Did you get a good look around yet?” John asks, eyes focused on the soft nape of Sherlock’s neck where it’s bent over the top drawer of the filing cabinet. Christ, he’s had too much to drink and it’s been too long. He needs to leave.

“No, I need more time. Another fifteen minutes should do it.”

“Well, I’ll stay that long. After that, you’re on your own.”

Sherlock stills in the act of rifling through a file. “Thank you,” he says, but doesn’t turn around. Another few seconds passes before Sherlock goes back to sorting and John keeps half an eye on their prisoner. He’s idly watching Sherlock’s arse in his well-fitted trousers when his ears catch the low sound of voices, likely headed their way.

John blesses Sherlock’s constant nagging about practicing their code words, because when John hisses “Milverton,” Sherlock reacts immediately, slaps at the desk lamp to turn it off and helps John carry the tied up and struggling prisoner to a door that turns out to be a closet. They deposit him roughly on the floor so he can’t reach the door and kick it. Sherlock  pushes the drawer of the filing cabinet to, and they both dive through another door that turns out to be a bathroom. There’s a small linen cupboard on one side of the room and Sherlock pulls them both inside, fits them together chest to chest and shuts the door just as they hear the knob rattle in the office.

The closet is dark and close and they simply breathe at each other, the adrenaline humming under John’s skin and his nose pressed into Sherlock’s now open collar. He smells amazing and John drinks it in in spite of himself, sinking into warmth and contentment, but he’s not prepared for the force of the longing that hits him straight in the gut when Sherlock shivers at the touch of his breath.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, and his fingers tighten where they rest on John’s waist.

The dark, needy note in Sherlock’s voice makes John want, makes him think of doing things they have no business doing in exactly the worst place imaginable, makes him want to forgive and forget. He’s been full of second thoughts since he left almost a month ago, and as he slowly slides his hands up Sherlock’s chest to caress his neck, John realizes this feeling, this burn of heady need that binds them together, is as instinctive as breathing. He trusts his gut – and he should trust this. Trust them.

“I only ever wanted this,” John murmurs quietly, and presses soft kisses to Sherlock’s jaw, the corner of his mouth, his chin. Sherlock tries to capture his lips in a kiss but John drops his chin. “I only ever wanted you.”

Sherlock works his hands under John’s shirt, and the touch of skin on skin is electric, sizzling, and the tiny little room seems to become smaller, closing in and keeping his attention directly on the lithe body in contact with his from chest to knees. It’s difficult to maneuver but John manages, fumbles the catch of Sherlock’s trousers open and gets his hands inside to skim his fingertips against Sherlock’s cock, hard and tight against his belly, against John’s belly. He drags his fingers against the soft skin, managing to catch his hand around Sherlock’s cock and press his thumb against the sensitive underside of the head. Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath and seems to hold it—fighting back a moan, John realizes with a rush—and as John starts to stroke him, Sherlock drops his head back against the wall with a tiny thump.

“Quiet,” John says, and feels a giggle trying to work its way out of his chest. He clamps down on the urge and strokes a little harder, a little faster while at the same time trying to move away enough that Sherlock’s questing hands can get into his flies. He succeeds in turning himself just a tiny bit sideways and Sherlock succeeds, frees John cock and they’re there, pressed together, barely able to move but their hands entwined and touching, pulling, pushing against each other until John feels Sherlock lean into him hard, suck in a deep breath and shudder, warm wetness covering them both. The feeling of Sherlock’s come against his fingers makes him flush, go cold then hot as his own orgasm coalesces, grows, and finally overtakes him and he shakes too, leaning hard into Sherlock’s chest with his mouth at Sherlock’s neck.

They jolt back to awareness when the voices in the office become a louder as they approach the bathroom door. They freeze, wet hands still tangled together and cocks out, listening intently and tensed to spring.  The voices stop for a moment then start up again, and John forgets to breathe, waiting for the inevitable.  Sherlock nudges him and they disentangle, put their clothes back together and prepare to defend themselves, but as they shift enough that they’re now settled with John facing the door in front of Sherlock, the voices fade, and John hears the outer office door open and close.

They wait a beat and then tumble out of the bathroom closet, sucking in big lungfuls of fresh air. John is about to suggest they get out as quickly as they can but then catches sight of the streaks of come on Sherlock’s trousers and cuffs of his jacket, feels the cooling stickiness on his own hands.  He can’t help it; he starts to giggle, helpless and relieved and amused by the entire ridiculous situation, just like he’d been on a dark wet night three years ago.

Sherlock joins him, leaning against the bathroom door, and the dim light from the wall sconce highlights the curve of his neck as he laughs, the curls of his dark hair, and John’s deeper in love and forgives Sherlock his frailties, just like that.

“How could I ever want more than this?” John says. “I wish you could believe me.”

 Sherlock quiets and turns toward John, lower lip caught between his teeth. He seems strangely hesitant, unusually subdued.

“I do,” he says quietly. “I … struggle, sometimes. I’ve only ever relied on myself, my own abilities.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “I’ve found I’ve come to rely on you, to trust you, more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

John feels his chest swell, his own heart hammering as Sherlock echoes his own thoughts, and he crosses the tiny space to wrap Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock hugs him back, rests his cheek against John’s hair. They stand entwined, John enjoying the moment until the memory of where they are intrudes.

“Come on, we’ve still got work to do,” he says, taking a pair of fawn-coloured handtowels from the rumpled linen closet and tossing one to Sherlock.  They clean up quickly before John pulls Sherlock back out into the office and turns on the desk light, smiling at Sherlock’s puzzled expression.  “The faster you find whatever it is you’re looking for, the faster we can go home.”

Sherlock grins at John’s implicit promise to give things another go and dives for the nearest cabinet, the room erupting in a flurry of paper in his haste to take them both back to Baker Street. John leans against the desk again and can feel the smug smile spread over his face. Marcus won’t even notice he’s gone, the way he’d been flirting with that waiter all night. Besides, he’ll buy Marcus a drink next weekend, to thank him for insisting John still attend tonight.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was desperate for ideas, so I put out a call for prompts. Shinkonokokoro responded with a request for some breakup drama, but where the boys had ended up at the same event and get back together. However, the prompt was asking for them to pretend to still be together but I just couldn't get it - given how elusive the Sherlock writing has been of late, I went with what I had. Hope this at least partially satisfies!


End file.
